


Pretty? Lovely.

by alezander



Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Identity Reveal, Letters, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 08:52:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12165591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alezander/pseuds/alezander
Summary: Entry for August 2017 with the theme "In Love With a Ghost". Ever tried having a penpal before? I used to have one but ever since I entered high school, we stopped writing to each other. But I heard she's dong fine so it's all good.





	Pretty? Lovely.

**Author's Note:**

> Entry for August 2017 with the theme "In Love With a Ghost". Ever tried having a penpal before? I used to have one but ever since I entered high school, we stopped writing to each other. But I heard she's dong fine so it's all good.

Since childhood, I've had a pen pal named Pretty. She was a fun person, honest and kind, yet she had the tendency to tease me or bully me, which was unexpected of her penmanship, which started in firm, decisive strokes and ended in gentle, wispy slopes. She'd always leave me challenged and at the edge of my seat by the end of her letters. She was mature yet playful. I've always found the combination unusual, since for me, being an adult meant being a serious, boring person. Yet she wasn't, so I liked her.

  
When I was in high school, I started thinking that maybe what I was feeling was wrong. Pretty was a single mother and I was a pubescent teen. My classmates had girlfriends and boyfriends and were having sex like crazy any day, any time. Yet I felt none of those urges for I was always looking far away, wondering what she looked like, how she felt towards me. Half a world away, still she managed to pull at me like a crazed magnet.  
  
Always, we each wrote two replies a month. I looked forward to them as if every time was Christmas eve so I was extremely dejected when suddenly Pretty stopped replying for six months. I waited until she started writing again. I remember being so happy when she was back, but there was something very different. The stationery, perfume, stamps, the pen and ink used, all were the same. Nevertheless, I just knew.  
  
The feel was sober. Not as playful, but her writing became more charming and somehow, attractive. There was sorrow embedded that the unbearable need to meet dominated my thoughts more each day. I kept thinking of her, wanting her, in my dreams, in my waking hours. Somehow, I just knew I had fallen in love. That was four years ago, and I started calling her Lovely.  
  
I arranged for us to meet before I started attending university. I just needed to talk to her in person. I knew I could be troubling her, given that she had her child to prioritize over a love affair with me, but she did say yes to our meeting, although I could sense a tinge of reluctance in her words. I didn't care, I was too happy to be finally meeting her. Nervous and giddy, I checked and double checked my appearance a bit too much before I entered the café we agreed on.  
  
"Excuse, but could you be..."  
  
A boy about three years younger spoke to me. He spoke softly and his voice was small. I looked at him and our eyes met. Then I knew.  
  
"L-Lovely..."  
  
I whispered, and he smiled sweetly. From his wallet he took a picture and showed it to me.  
  
"My mother. She's not here now, but yes, she was lovely."  
  
I stared at the picture while trying to figure out who the boy was.  
  
"I'm sorry. The truth is, my mother died nearly five years ago. She made me promise to continue writing to you in her place, so as to not cause you grief."  
  
The boy was looking down and twiddling his thumbs as he spoke.  
  
"So I was in love with a ghost, is that it? I came all this way for this?"  
  
"I-I'm really sorry."  
  
He was really cute, to be honest, and I noticed that even with this revelation, my heartbeat never slowed down at all. He was still my Lovely, after all.  
  
"I have to tell you something."  
  
I said and he nodded, leaning forward.  
  
"I miss Pretty, but I love Lovely more."

**Author's Note:**

> For once I didn't use music to help me write. This entry was for August 2017 and because I have been so busy lately, only now do I post this here. Reading this piece again, I realize how mood-less the story is (at least for me) because there is no song playing in my head as I reread this entry. Am I making sense? I assume the other writers here can somehow relate to what I mean. We all have our little 'rituals' when we write, right? For me, it's listening to music while I write. So... mind telling me what's yours?


End file.
